poem

On the Commitment of a Poet, Eighteen Years Old
for Barbara

If we had known the depths of your quiet,
Or looked at eyes as often as at words,
We might have quelled the silent slow riot
Behind your eyes' cage full of fallen birds.
We did not hear the keen of crumpled wing,
That sudden low departure. Only you
Could see the Sparrows' last great try to cling
To air that was no longer clear nor blue.

And now you hold your song in muted stead,
In sterile room of tall blank walls of white,
Where no one comes or goes, but some are led.
You move as moved but sing in us at night.
We say your words, the razored edge is gone:
We say the words, we cannot sing the song.

© Bill Boydstun